


Boredom and Barking

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Crush, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, Massage, Mentions of Established Dom/Sub Relationship, Mentions of Rope Bondage, Sikenlock, Unconscious John, fem!Moran, fem!Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A copy of Richard Siken's <i>Crush</i> winds its way through a genderswapped AU. </p><p>1. <a href="http://yupnet.org/siken/2008/03/24/little-beast/">Little Beast.</a> Seb & her Boss hightail it to their holiday villa after a job well done. Seb reads poetry; Moriarty reacts predictably.<br/>2. <a href="http://yupnet.org/siken/2008/03/19/saying-your-names/">Saying Your Names.</a> (Part 1 of 2) Sherlock reads poetry by John's hospital bedside.<br/>3. <a href="http://yupnet.org/siken/2008/03/19/saying-your-names/">Saying Your Names.</a> (Part 2 of 2) Sherlock avenges John's injuries and gets a lesson in love from Mycroft.<br/>4. <a href="http://poeticfuck.blogspot.com/2008/06/siken-snow-and-dirty-rain.html">Snow and Dirty Rain.</a> Mycroft helps Lestrade appreciate a bit of Culture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references two poems by Richard Siken from his collection _Crush_. The final line is from ["Scheherazade"](http://yupnet.org/siken/2008/03/21/scheherazade/); the rest are from ["Little Beast."](http://yupnet.org/siken/2008/03/24/little-beast/) The story title and the comment about the 'sheet music, scored for human breathing' are from Mr. Siken's Tumblr.

Seb spat on the ground. The right side of her face throbbed, as if with one more crank of the handle, the tinny tune in her head would stop, and her eye would pop out of its socket like a puppet clown.

She threw up a hand, shielding her eyes from the mid-day sun. Her other hand dropped by her side, reaching for the cigarette lighter that wasn’t there. She shifted her weight from left to right and back to left. She was a creature of night, of shadow, of corners, of camouflage of the _crack-in-the-earth-or-a-snake?_ variety.

_Definitely a snake. Always a snake._ And the only thing a snake did on a road like this was _die_.

Seb’s fingers gently surveyed the terrain of her face while her tongue explored her mouth. The bruises would be ugly, but all her teeth were accounted for.

And the job was done. She spat again.

_Vroom_ _!_

Straight out of a Hollywood film, the old fashioned kind that Seb favoured, a tiny, top-down sports car flew around the curve; a tail of scarf whipped behind the driver.

_She does love to be dramatic._

Seb smiled. And winced.

The car came to a screeching halt.

“You look like shite, Tiger.” Moriarty drew a silver cigarette case from inside her suit jacket and opened it. Seb took one, though even the subtle motion of pursing her lips around it sent a stab of pain straight to her brain. Moriarty clicked the glove box open. There was a familiar flash of metal and the faint _chit-chit_ of tablets rattling against each other. She produced Seb’s lighter and flicked it, holding the flame steady. Seb leaned in, cigarette between two fingers.

It was foreplay, the old fashioned kind that Seb favoured. She took a slow drag, pushed the smoke out in a single stream. Then she purred,

“ _’But damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills_.’”

Moriarty frowned.

“Poetry. American.”

Moriarty shrugged. “Guess that makes me your boy.” She removed a pair of aviator sunglasses, revealing green eyes that were, for the moment, more soft spring grass than hard faceted emerald. Seb thought of the poem—‘ _You could drown in those eyes’—_ but kept her lips sealed around the cigarette. She slipped the lighter in her pocket and fingered the silk that twisted down Moriarty’s arm.

“Isn’t this how Grace Kelly died?”

“I don’t know,” Moriarty mumbled, struggling with the cap of the pill bottle. “I didn’t kill her.” She thrust the whole bottle at Seb, who opened it and tapped out two tablets that chalked a bitter streak on her tongue. The bottle joined Seb’s lighter, stretching the pocket of her jeans.

“Where to?” asked Seb.

“The villa.”

“You’re driving this toy to _Greece_?!”

Moriarty smiled. The sunglasses dangled from one finger.

Seb rolled her eyes and answered herself. “No, _I_ am.” She grabbed the sunglasses and circled the rear of the car. She folded herself carefully into the driver’s seat as Moriarty eased over the gear stick.

“Isadora Duncan,” said Seb, watching Moriarty re-wrap the scarf around her head.

“Didn’t kill her either.”

* * *

“Listen to this part…”

“I’m _trying_ to _fuck_ you,” grumbled Moriarty into the small of Seb’s back. She scraped a canine across her lover’s skin.

“World’s only consulting criminal can’t fuck and listen at the same time?! I like this part.” Seb lay on her stomach, propped up on elbows, a thin book between thumb and curled index finger. “ _’The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. It’s thinking of love. It’s thinking of stabbing us to death and leaving our bodies in a dumpster_ ’—“

“—speaking of which, did you remember to—“

“Hush. This is Poetry. ‘ _That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone_.’” Seb turned in Moriarty’s arms, sliding down the bed until they were face-to-face. “ _’Whisky and kisses for everyone_.’ S’nice.” Seb angled the book toward Moriarty. “He says the words on the page, the way they’re arranged, it’s like sheet music, scored for human breathing.”

“That’s it.” Moriarty snatched the book. She stomped to the open window and hurled it into the night. When she turned back to Seb, the green of her eyes was serpentine, predatory, as it had been that first night, lifetimes ago, in a dirty toilet. “No one’s telling you when you breathe but _me_.”

* * *

Moriarty watched a snail smear of drool darken the pillowcase beneath Seb’s mouth. She was thinking of colours. Of violet and cobalt and mauve. Of terre verte and lemon. Of the hues she would need to reproduce Seb’s mottled face on canvas. Perhaps a series, capturing the changes as the bruises faded. Watercolours? Oils? She weighed the pros and cons.

She glanced at the open window with equal parts disdain and suspicion, as if the book would fling itself back into the room like a vengeful cinematic monster. “Poetry,” she huffed. But when she looked back at Seb’s sleeping form, she heard accusation in the snuffling. “Oh, alright.” She wrapped Seb’s button-down shirt around herself like a dressing gown, stepped into her lover’s gargantuan boots, and plod out the door.

* * *

 

Seb woke. She looked around the room. _Still night._ She raised her good eyebrow and leaned on one arm, pressing her chest to Moriarty’s back.

“Ah ha,” she exclaimed as she peered over her lover’s shoulder. Light from a small bedside lamp shone warmly on the accordion of pages.

Moriarty tilted her head and read: “ _’What would you like?_ ’”

Seb answered in a sleepy growl. “ _’I’d like my money’s worth_.’” She inhaled and exhaled and continued. “ _’Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—,’“_ she touched the mauled side of her face _, “’swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. We pull our boots on with both hands but we can’t punch ourselves awake_...’”

Her words died when Moriarty put a finger to her lips and finished the line, “’… _and all I can do is stand on the curb and say_ _Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it were mine_.”

Seb pulled back and Moriarty moved forward until they sat facing each other, masks fallen, posturing folded, to reveal the unnamed and unnameable.

“Seb…”

“Boss…”

“Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it were mine.”

Seb’s eyes stung. “S’alright,” she said with a wave of the hand. “S’the job. Survived.”

“See that you do,” croaked Moriarty. She twisted her head to stare at the far wall and ran a hand through her hair. “See. That. You. Do.”

Seb studied a crack in the headboard. Then she scrubbed the crusted spit from the side of her mouth and reached for the drawer of the bedside table. She threw back two pills.

Moriarty cleared her throat. “There’s a bit of rope left.”

Seb smiled and nodded. She swallowed a third pill.

When they had arranged themselves and the scene to their mutual satisfaction, Moriarty squat. Eye-to-eye, she held Seb’s chin and her gaze firmly.

“Safe word?”

Seb’s lips twitched. “Little Beast.”

“Cheek.” Moriarty stood. “Fair warning: I plan to thrash all that poetry out of you.”

“Fair warning: I plan to enjoy your _attempt_.”

“Horrid, horrid sub. My cross to bear.” Moriarty sighed dramatically. “Shall we begin?” She punctuated the question with a _thump_ of coiled rope against the floor.

Seb bowed her head and closed her eyes.

* * *

Moriarty watched the dawn creep across the floor. She was trying to think: of colours, of canvas and brushstrokes, of composition; of Grace Kelly and Isadora Duncan and the merits and folly of neckwear as murder weapon; of _anything_ but the one line that repeated, that snagged the needle of her mind like a scratch on vinyl.

_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._

“Bloody poetry,” Moriarty muttered. Then she rose and dressed and closed the door behind her.


	2. Saying Your Names (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sits by John's hospital bedside. She makes a discovery and remembers.

Sherlock rolled the rubber band off the dog-eared book. Warped pages crackled. She read by the light over the sink, the one that the night nurse would flick on when she made her rounds.

_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._

The words hit Sherlock like a blow to the sternum, momentarily knocking the breath out of her. She looked across the room at the still form in the sterile bed.

_Still breathing. Of course, she’s still breathing. She’s got a machine to breath for her._

Sherlock forced her eyes back to the page. Half-way through the thin tome, she discovered a scrap of envelope stuck tightly in the crevice.

_Shopping list-as-bookmark. Typical John._

Sherlock unfolded it.

“Perchloroethylene?”

Sherlock glanced at John and remembered.

* * *

_Knock, knock._

“John?”

A groan. Shuffling footsteps. The door opened.

“Another body.” Sherlock uttered the words around two hairpins clasped between her teeth. She was fully-dressed. Her hands were in her hair, twisting the tangled mass into submission.

John nodded. She grabbed the pair of jeans at the foot of the bed.

Sherlock spotted a book, open, face-down on the bedside table. _Curious_. “May I?” she asked, raising her foot in a pantomime of ‘crossing the threshold.’ Ridiculous, but their association… _must find a word that is not-quite-so-Mycroft_ …was still a wobbly toddler finding its legs. Rousing a sleeping Watson from a warm bed and then immediately trampling upon her explicitly-stated boundaries was, Sherlock knew from recent experience, a bit Not Good.

John grunted and nodded. She pulled a shirt from the bottom of the wardrobe and sniffed it.

Sherlock stepped toward the bedside table. “Poetry.” _Interesting._ She noted the rubber band peeking from beneath the book and indentations on the cover. _New books did not require makeshift binding. Books that had, say, been dropped in the bath and then dried, however. Not by John. John was not careless with her few possessions. Previous owner, then._

“Borrowed.”

“Mm. ‘M not much a poetry buff, but s’good. Came recommended.” John’s reply was muffled as her head and hands burrowed up through a jumper, one from her lumpy porridge collection, Sherlock noted.

“Stamford?” Sherlock hoped that John’s slumber-addled mind would not recall her earlier words: _People don’t like telling you things, but they love to contradict you._

“Yeah right. Nah, tea shop girl. That is, woman. Lady? She’s not really a lady. Woman that works at the tea shop.”

_Who is this tea shop girl—not-a-lady!—that is lending my…my John…books of poetry?_ _File for later. Another body!_

John’s head emerged from the woolly monstrosity. “A moment,” she said, her voice still thick with sleep.

_Loo._

“Quickly! Another body!” Sherlock’s huff was interrupted by a rugby-tackle hug. Her startled arms flew out, and her hands hovered just above John’s hunched shoulders like birds about to perch.

John inhaled loudly; Sherlock felt her smile pressed into the wool. “That smell. Love it.”

_Perfume, no_

_Hair product, no_

_Lotion, no_

“Coat,” mumbled John. Sherlock bent her head and sniffed.

“Perchloroethylene?”

“Mm. Means you slept. Only time you send the Belstaff out to be cleaned.” Sherlock stared down at John’s arms, wound around her waist, and at her own arms, still hanging ridiculously in air. Her face registered surprise.

John chuckled. “Deduce the world, Sherlock Holmes; I only want to deduce _you_. Alright.” John released Sherlock, leaving her off-balance. “Loo and then I’m yours,” John said as she plod down the stairs.

Sherlock stood frozen. Then she turned sharply, scooped up the book, snapped the rubber band around it, and slipped it into her coat pocket.

“Poetry!” she swore.

* * *

Back against the grey wall _,_ Sherlock balanced on the top of the armchair, feet on the seat, reading John’s list. The words were written in a small careful hand—Sherlock had always considered John’s penmanship as conclusive evidence that what nuns had taught at the crack of a ruler not even medical school could rend asunder:

>   _Perchloroethylene,_ _Corvus corax, dragon_
> 
> _Mary Watson-Holmes, Hamish Watson-Holmes, Lincoln Park At Midnight_
> 
> _Pisiform, triquetrum, scaphoid, lunate_
> 
> _Friend, lover, partner, love_
> 
> _?? Sherlock Holmes_
> 
> _For a Swarm of Bees and Genesis 3:14_
> 
> _Sherlock, SHERLOCK!_
> 
> _sherlock, Love_

Sherlock frowned and touched the fingers of one hand to her lips. _Clues to a crossword puzzle? Or a riddle?_

_Whee! Whee!_

The screeching machines interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts. Her eyes darted from the printed words in her hand to the flashing numbers on the monitors.

_Problem?_

Harsh light flooded the room. A nurse rushed by Sherlock. Her fluttering hands silenced the noise. Sherlock watched her.

_Checking, checking, checking._

The nurse left as quickly as she had entered, giving Sherlock no more notice than the vase of flowers.

_No problem._

Sherlock returned to the list. She held it beside the page that it had marked.

> _Chemical names, bird names, names of fire_
> 
> _and flight and snow, baby names, paint names,_
> 
> _delicate names like bones in the body,_
> 
> _Rumplestiltskin names that are always changing,_
> 
> _names that no one’s ever able to figure out._
> 
> _Names of spells and names of hexes, names_
> 
> _cursed quietly under the breath, or called out_
> 
> _loudly to fill the yard, calling you inside again,_
> 
> _calling you home._

“Oh, bloody hell!” Sherlock said under her breath. She threw the book against the far wall. It fell to the floor, pages fluttering.

“It’s a _poem_.” The last word was an accusation. She glared at John. “About me?! For me?! You were copying him, this poet. _Chemical names_ … _Perchloroethylene_ _…bird names…Corvus corax.”_

Sherlock sighed. “John Watson, you romantic sod!”

She put her head in her hands and ruffled her hair. Then her face shot up, eyes dancing across the bare wall.

“You tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Sherlock retrieved the book from where it had fallen. Once she set about remembering, memories lit in her Mind Palace like fireflies at dusk. Like stars in a constellation, the conversations, the moments were random splatterings of light made into form by a story.

John’s story. John’s questions.

Sherlock’s answers.

John’s poem.

* * *

_“…bird names…Corvus corax…”_

_”_ What is it?” Sherlock asked, not raising her eyes from her mobile. Still-dark streets of London passed by in the taxi window.

“Nothing.”

“You’re trying not to stare, and you’re thinking. Loudly.”

“What’s the name of that bird? Black? With the bill? Not a stork or a heron or an egret. Egyptian god.”

“Ibis. Family: _Threskiornithidae_.”

“Mm. Thanks.”

“Not _Corvus corax_?”

“What?”

“Common raven. Oh, I’m sorry, weren’t we playing ‘birds that I resemble’?”

John turned pink. “I w-w-wasn’t taking the piss. It’s…um…”

“Finally. Right here’s fine,” said Sherlock to the driver, hopping out as the vehicle slowed.

* * *

“… _names of fire and flight and snow_ … _dragon…”_

John laughing about her first impression of Sherlock over dim sum after they’d removed the gunpowder residue from John’s hands: “…[your posturing and your all-seeing eye and your swishing about like a bloody firedrake](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1541153/chapters/3378134)…”

* * *

“… _baby names_ … _Mary Watson-Holmes, Hamish Watson-Holmes…”_

John leaning against the sink, wet cloth in hand. “If you ever had children, Sherlock, what would you name them?”

“Really, John, do I strike you as the maternal type? _You_ name them!” Sherlock had re-focused the microscope lens on the drop of blood.

* * *

“… _paint names_ … _Lincoln Park at Midnight… **”**_

“What’s that colour called?”

A bottle of dark nail varnish was balanced precariously on Sherlock’s knee. She studied her hand.

“Lincoln Park at Midnight.”

“Lincoln Park? America?”

“Chicago.”

“Nice. Little vampish.”

Sherlock looked up to see John’s lips curling in a smile. She shifted so that the side of her dressing gown slid, revealing a bare leg and hip. She returned John’s smile.

“A lot vampish.”

“Want some assistance?” asked John.

“Love some. If you promise not to smudge it.” Sherlock batted her eyelashes and pouted theatrically.

John leaned down, the tiny brush from Sherlock’s fingers.

Her voice fell to a low purr.

“I’ll be _very_ slow and precise. Might take all afternoon.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Yes.”

* * *

“… _delicate names like bones in the body_ … _Pisiform, triquetrum, scaphoid, lunate…”_

“No! Go away!”

“Show me your wrist, Sherlock. You hurt it, didn’t you? You said you were alright, but I’ve never seen you play the violin looking like you’re about to pass a kidney stone.”

“I’m fine!”

“Sherlock!”

It was _the_ tone, that timber of voice that made even the world’s only consulting detective comply. Sherlock rolled up her sleeve. Even John’s gentle touch, however, made her wince.

“Christ! It’s at least sprained. Maybe broken. You need an X-ray.”

“No!”

“Sherlock, there are eight bones in the human wrist—“

She sneered and began to recite, “Pisiform, triquetrum, scaphoid, lunate…”

John smiled patiently. “I passed anatomy, Sherlock. And any one of those delicately-named bones could be broken. X-ray. Let’s go.”

“I need my hand, John!” Sherlock bit back a howl as she tried to button her shirt-sleeve over swollen skin.

“You can use my hand until yours is healed.”

* * *

Sherlock smirked. “And didn’t _that_ turn out to be a lot more interesting than either of us envisioned, John?”

The only response was the steady whirring of the machines.

_“…Rumplestiltskin names that are always changing…Friend, lover, partner, love_ …”

How extraordinary that she, Sherlock Holmes, should be someone’s…someone’s…well…any of those things.

_“…Names that no one’s able to figure out…?? Sherlock Holmes…”_

Sherlock leapt from the chair and approached the bed.

“Naturally. Naturally you weren’t able to figure it out, _Hannah, Johnine, Watson_ , because you don’t go snooping for a flatmate’s birth certificate within eight hours of their moving in.”

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“It’s Rosalind. Rosalind Violet Sherlock Holmes. You were quite right to be suspicious; no mother in her right mind would call her daughter Sherlock,” she scoffed. “Sherlock is a boy’s name.”

Sherlock returned to the poems.

“… _Names of spells and names of hexes…For a Swarm of Bees and Genesis 3:14_ …”

Her face fell.

“The case.”

* * *

“The average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate, John.”

“Yeah, I remember. That’s why I took a photograph. Again.” She held up her mobile.

Sherlock studied the screen. “Well done. Interesting.”

“What’s that?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock felt one set of annoying eyes and one set of _supremely_ annoying eyes looking over her shoulder.

“Graffiti. Found near the body. Covered over now. A spell.”

A nasally voice quipped, “Someone giving him the evil eye, cursing him, Genesis 3:14, ‘And the Lord God said unto the serpent—‘”

“Thank you for the scripture lesson, Anderson, but no, a spell, not a hex. Please consult a dictionary for the difference. This one’s called ‘For a Swarm of Bees.’ Anglo-Saxon charm.”

Sherlock stomped away; John followed.

“What does it mean, Sherlock? This bloke,” she motioned toward the body, “was a beekeeper? Or the murderer is?”

“My interest in apiary is public record now, thanks to your blog.” John flushed. “It’s a message for me. This,” she held up John’s phone, “and the marks on the body. He’s back.”

“Who?”

“The Golem.”

John turned pale. “He almost killed you.”

“Yes, and I was wrong. I said it would take weeks to find him again. It’s been almost a year. It may take another day or two, but I _will_ find him.”

“Oh, Christ, this means…,” said John with a groan.

“…yes, the homeless network…,” muttered Sherlock, her mind already formulating the plan.

“…no, the fucking sewers!”

* * *

And she had.

Found the Golem, that is. It had taken another day and another body, but she had found him.

In the sewers, of course.

* * *

He was running.

Sherlock and John were running.

Lestrade was running.

Half of the Met was running.

Out of the pitch-black and into the shadowy grey.

Sherlock signaled with her hand. John gave a nod and veered left.

_They had him!_

Sherlock’s blood sang. She turned the corner.

Then she saw them, the Golem and John, far ahead of her, on the bridge.

Sherlock stopped. She saw what John couldn’t see.

He wasn’t running anymore.

He was waiting. In ambush.

“JOHN!”

John being tossed like a doll in the air.

John slamming into the side of the bridge as she fell.

John tumbling into the dark water.

Sherlock raced toward the splash, shrugging off the Belstaff. In an instant, she was on the ground beneath four officers.

“No, you don’t,” barked Lestrade. “I don’t need both of you in hospital. Rescue’s going for her.”

“S-s-she hit…”

“Yeah, we all saw her bounce like a pinball. We’ll get her, Sherlock. Ambulance is on the way.”

“The Golem?”

“Gone, crazy bastard. Disappeared into thin air. We’ll get him, too.”

Sherlock screamed.

* * *

The machines droned.

“… _names cursed quietly under the breath, or called out loudly to fill the yard, calling you inside again, calling you home…_ _…Sherlock, SHERLOCK! sherlock, Love…”_  

“Not very original, John, but nevertheless…” Sherlock tucked the envelope in her inside coat pocket. She leaned against John’s bed, staring at the tubes and wires and the tape and bandages. Then she shook her head and looked down at the book, surprised to see it still in her hand.

“Might as well finish it,” she said quietly.

“… _Names called out across water_ …”

Sherlock heard the echo of her own scream.

“ _JOHN!_ ”


	3. Saying Your Names (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock avenges John's injuries and gets a lesson in love from Mycroft.

“It’s ridiculous, John. I can’t write a poem for you. Look.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned the book towards the bed.

“ _…the names of flowers that open only once…”_

“This, this,” Sherlock glanced at the cover, “Siken fellow isn’t very specific. Once a year? Once a decade? Once a century? And should I _really_ call you my night-blooming cereus? My Queen of the Andes? Don’t exactly trip off the tongue, do they?”

Sherlock huffed.

“And as far as the rest of them… _names I called you behind your back, sour and delicious, secret and unrepeatable_ …I call you ‘idiot’ behind your back _and_ to your face so that’s no good… _shouted from balconies, shouted from rooftops, or muffled by pillows, or whispered in sleep…_ Well, it’s one word. John. John. John. John. And I _have_ shouted it from rooftops _and_ from balconies. And it _has_ been muffled in pillows and whispered in sleep. And this very moment, I confess, it is very much caught in my throat like a lump of meat.”

“John.” She leaned closer and with each urging, her voice quavered a little more.

“Wake. Up.”

“Wake up.”

“Please, wake up.”

Sherlock waited.

She growled and stomped her feet. Slipping deftly around of the wires and tubing, she bent herself until her face was slotted beside John’s. Then she held the book in front of them.

“Here, have some more:

> _I try, I do. I try and try. A happy ending?_
> 
> _Sure enough—Hello darling, welcome._
> 
> _I’ll call you darling, hold you tight. We are_
> 
> _not traitors but the lights go out. It’s dark_.”

Sherlock tilted her head towards John.

“Now, wake up and say the next bit. Wake up, John, and say, ‘ _Sweetheart, is that you?_ ’ It’s so perfect. Such a John line, ‘ _Sweetheart, is that you?_ ’ So romantic, so sentimental, so bloody _endearing_!”

“Wake! Up!”

“FUCK!”

Sherlock flung herself into the armchair. “Fucking poetry!” She yanked the edges of the book apart.

> “ _the soft sound of a body falling off a bridge_
> 
> _behind you, the body hardly even makes_
> 
> _a sound. The waters of the dead, a clear road,_
> 
> _every lover in the form of stars, the road_
> 
> _blocked. All night I stretched my arms across_
> 
> _him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing_
> 
> _with all my skin and bone Please keep him safe_.”

The book fell from Sherlock’s hands.

She saw John fall. She heard the splash. On continuous loop in the cinema of her Mind Palace.

She stood up and left the room without a sound.

* * *

“Don’t worry, John, no one will interrupt,” said Sherlock as she crawled onto the hospital bed some hours later, book in hand. She laid fully-dressed beside John, atop the white sheets. “There’s quite the crisis down the hall. All hands on deck, as they say. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Hospitals need drills; I just helped them exercise their emergency response plan.”

Sherlock nudged John’s head with her own. Then she whispered in her ear.

“It’s done, John. He’s dead, The Golem. I didn’t kill him directly, but I did ensure that he died. And watch him. Die, that is. Had to be sure. In the sewers. Your favourite.” Sherlock glanced at John with a half-smile, then looked down. “Need to send the Belstaff out to be cleaned, post-haste” she said, picking at the dark wool. Then she added, “But he paid, dearly, for hurting you.”

Sherlock nodded to herself. Then she opened the book

“Let’s see, where was I? Hmm. ‘ _Your name like a song I sing to myself, your name like a box where I keep my love_ ,’ Very romantic. ‘ _Your name like detergent in the washing machine_.’ Well, that’s appropriate, for you at least. Ah, here’s one for us: ‘ _we laugh, and it pits the world against us, we laugh, and we’ve nothing left to lose_.’ Giggling at crime scenes, cracking jokes in the morgue, that’s us. Here’s another: ‘ _Names of poisons, names of handguns_ ’ Well, that’s quite perfect. We could write volumes. Hmm.”

Sherlock propped herself up on her elbow and looked at John. As she read, her voice fell to a whisper.

> “ _your breath on my neck like a music that holds_
> 
> _my hands down, kisses as the burn their way_
> 
> _along my spine—or rain, our bodies wet,_
> 
> _clothes clinging arm to elbow, clothes clinging_
> 
> _nipple to groin—I’ll be right here. I’m waiting._ ”

“I’ll be right here, John. I’m waiting. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

She took John’s hand and held it, tracing a pattern with her thumb over the tape and tubing.

> _“…Here is my hand, my heart,_
> 
> _my throat, my wrist. Here are the illumined_
> 
> _cities at the center of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we_
> 
> _can drink from, but I can’t go through with it._
> 
> _I just don’t want to die anymore.”_

“Before I met you, things were different. But now? Now, you need to wake up. Because if you don’t, well, I don’t want to think about ‘if you don’t.’ The fact is, John, I just don’t want to die anymore. Wake up, please.”

The door swung open. Sherlock shot off the bed

“There you are! Turn on your mobile, you pompous git!”

“Where else would I be, Detective Inspector?” snapped Sherlock.

“That’s a very good question. In fact, that is the question that brings me here in at the crack of bloody dawn. You’re coming down to the station. With me. Now. And you’re going to give a full and accurate description of your whereabouts for the last oh, say, six to eight hours.”

“Surely this can wait…”

“No, it can’t, Sherlock. We just fished our Czech friend Mr. Dzundza out of the Thames. Well, several pieces of him, at least. I’m sure the rest of him is washing up as we speak.”

“Good. I’m elated.”

“Yeah, you have anything to do with that?”

“I did not kill him.”

“Not what I said. Okay, you’re coming with me. Full statement. We’re doing this one by the book. I don’t want it coming back to bite me in the arse.”

“No!” Sherlock turned back toward John.

“She’ll be here when you get back.”

“She had better be,” said Sherlock in low menacing tone.

“Don’t make me get out the handcuffs,” countered Lestrade. They locked eyes for a moment and then Lestrade opened the door and made an ushering gesture.

Sherlock slowly untied and retied her scarf and flipped up the collar of her coat. She stepped out the door into the crowded corridor. Lestrade put a hand on her back, and they wove their way upstream through a sea of hazmat suits.

“Thank goodness weaponized Ebola is not my division,” muttered Lestrade when the elevator doors closed. “Guess your sister’ll be around soon.”

* * *

Six hours later, the elevator doors opened.

_SMACK!_

An umbrella appeared, blocking Sherlock’s exit.

“Hello, Sister Dear. We must talk.”

Mycroft pushed Sherlock back onto the elevator and tapped a button on the panel. The doors closed.

“No, let me go. I want to see John. I have nothing to say to you.”

“No? You just killed one of the world’s most deadly assassins—“

“I didn’t—“ Sherlock protested.

“And called in a false report of a bioterrorist threat—“

“That was just to—“

“I am not the Metropolitan Police Service, Sherlock Holmes! Or Interpol! And I am much better at semantics than you are, so let’s dispense with the farce. This morning I was rudely diverted from my priority tasks—which actually _are_ of national importance—and forced to clean up your messes!”

“Did it interrupt your breakfast? Tragedy.”

Mycroft ignored the jibe and continued, “The latter situation has been dealt with, and the former will be, quickly.”

“So what’s there to talk about? And you’re welcome for removing an internationally-wanted killer from circulation—most importantly his!”

“Ha. Ha. Now, listen—“

”I’m not listening to anything you have to say. I am going to see John. I want to be by her side when she wakes up.” Sherlock made for the elevator button. Mycroft blocked her way.

“Sherlock, this chivalry is…”

“Mycroft!”

And where the next outburst originated, Sherlock would never be quite sure.

“I just don’t want to die anymore.”

Mycroft stared at her. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s a line from a poem, a poem that John was reading.”

Mycroft’s eyes darted to the wall. “Not one I’m familiar with…”

Sherlock huffed impatiently.

Mycroft said quietly, “You love her?”

“Yes! Now. Let. Me. Go.”

“Sherlock, there’s more to love than poetry.”

“What do you mean?”

“John. She’s septic.”

Sherlock paled.

“Oh, yes, Sister Dear. A full system infection. Quite serious. As serious as the injuries that put her in that bed in the first place.”

Mycroft leaned into Sherlock, her face a breath’s distance from her sister’s, her voice icy.

“Did you really think that you could go play murder in the sewers, get yourself completely filthy, and then _cuddle_ with your unconscious flatmate-cum-girlfriend and there would be no consequences? Of course, you did, because you don’t think about anyone but yourself! Sherlock Holmes, there is more to love than poetry. Sometimes love means washing your bloody hands!”

Sherlock swallowed. And remembered.

_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._


	4. Snow and Dirty Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade thinks that she doesn't go in for Culture. Mycroft helps her appreciate a spot of poetry. Plus, epilogue where the book goes back to its original owner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point in the AU, between jobs, Moran works at a tea shop that John frequents. She knows who John (and Sherlock) are, but they (and Lestrade and Mycroft) are unaware of her relationship to Moriarty.

“Oh damn!” said Lestrade.

Mycroft slid the coat on Lestrade’s shoulders and bent to pick up the book that had fallen out of the pocket. She gave Lestrade an inquiry look.

“I meant to give that back to John at the crime scene today.”

Mycroft studied at the front cover. “Poetry. American.”

“John was reading it when she was in hospital. She said she liked it. She said that _Sherlock_ liked it.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose.

“I know! If both of them liked it, I thought it might be interesting. Something different. A bit of Culture with a capital C.” Lestrade frowned.

“But…?” Mycroft glanced at the first page.

“But I’ve read a few pages and I don’t understand a word! Makes me feel quite thick that I don’t see the appeal. I mean your sister, well, whatever, but John, she’s, she’s…like me.” Lestrade glanced at Mycroft, whose placid expression had not changed. She continued, “Either I’m too stupid to understand it or too common to appreciate it.”

“Nonsense,” said Mycroft. She put a hand on the small of Lestrade’s back and ushered her through the door. They walked to the elevators, side-by-side.

Lestrade said, “I like novels where the detective’s cat solves the crime or the clue to the whole thing is in a recipe for cinnamon scones. Something light and fun and so far removed from my day-to-day as to be pure fantasy. Are we late?”

“Not at all. And literature as a form of escapism is hardly unusual. Why do you think I prefer Thucydides? May I borrow it?”

“Be my guest. Maybe you can explain it to me. Make me feel like less of a stooge.”

Mycroft tucked the book in her coat pocket. The elevator doors closed.

* * *

“You hated the film, didn’t you?”

“Not at all. As you said, it was something light and fun and so far removed from my day-to-day as to be pure fantasy.” Mycroft studied the tip of her umbrella; there was a mischievous twitch of a smile on her lips. “Plus, there were quite nice examples of haberdashery,” she added more soberly.

They crossed the street to the waiting car.

“Did it cut too close to home?” teased Lestrade.

Mycroft’s smile bloomed. “Really? A film about a top secret intelligence agency that thwarts a plot to take over the world. You flatter me. I am a humble servant in her Majesty’s service.”

Lestrade laughed loudly as Mycroft opened the car door. “So is James Bond. Oh my God, Mycroft, it’s a biopic, isn’t it? _Your_ biopic.” she teased.

“Get in the car, my Queen.” Lestrade slid across the leather seat. Mycroft followed.

“It is! You’re Harry and…oh my…Anthea is Eggsy! He looks a little bit like him. Was it like that? The interview process to be your PA? Is your umbrella bulletproof?”

“Please don’t shoot it to find out. This one’s my favourite.”

* * *

Mycroft closed the book and set it on the bedside table. She took off her reading glasses and set them on top of the book. After a moment or two of thought, she reached for her phone.

“Good morning, love. How’re you and Eggsy doing in Kuala Lumpur?”

“Very well, thank you. I propose an experiment.”

“You’re channelling your sister, Mycroft. It’s frightening.”

“Perish the thought. Seriously, kill that idea, post-haste. No, the next evening that we’re both available, I propose a little recitation of one of the poems in the book that you leant me. Might help you see its merit. Poetry is, after all, an oral tradition. The written word can be, well, quite limited as a form of communication when it comes to more _profound_ ideas. ”

“Alright. You’ve got me curious.”

“And you know what they say about curiosity.”

“Something about pussy and satisfaction so I’m definitely in.”

Mycroft laughed.

* * *

“Ready?”

“For my lesson in Culture? Yes.”

“Through here, my dear.”

Lestrade took in the room, the padded table with sheet, the candlelight, and the scent of tea tree oil.

Mycroft placed a hand on either side of Lestrade’s face, looked deep into her eyes, and said slowly:

> “ _Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close_
> 
> _to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me_
> 
> _with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending_
> 
> _to sleep, while I’m in the other room.”_

Lestrade smiled and nodded. She leaned into Mycroft and gently kissed her lips.

Mycroft left the room without a sound and leaned against the door. She unbuttoned her collar and her cuffs and rolled her sleeves up to the elbow. She heard Lestrade clear her throat and returned to the room.

Lestrade was face-down on the table, with the sheet draped at her waist. Her bare skin shone golden in the half-light. Mycroft circled her. Then she stopped and put one hand between Lestrade’s shoulder blades and one at the dip of her spine. She inhaled and exhaled slowly and audibly until Lestrade’s breathing synchronized with hers.

She moved to Lestrade’s head, looking down towards her feet. She rubbed oil between her palms and placed her hands on either side of Lestrade’s spine. Then, leaning with the weight of her body pushing through her hands, she rubbed down Lestrade’s back, fanning her fingers out and stroking down the sides of her body.

“ _Imagine my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots in the slatted light. I’m thinking…”_

Mycroft relaxed her hands into the curves of Lestrade’s waist before pulling them back towards her spine. She ran her hands back up to Lestrade’s neck and then pressed the heels of her hands into the base of her neck across her shoulders to her upper arms. She gently swept her hands around and returned to her starting point. She matched the flow of her hands over Lestrade’s skin to the cadence of her words so that they joined in a single rhythm.

“… _It’s a potluck. I’m making pork chops_ …”

Lestrade giggled, pushed up on her forearms and twisted her head to look at Mycroft. “See I’m quite sure the poet didn’t intend for that to be humorous, but you saying ‘pork chops’ is….”

Mycroft l put a finger to Lestrade’s lips.

> “… _My dragonfly,_
> 
> _my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing_
> 
> _for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,_
> 
> _and this is the map of my heart_.”

Lestrade stared at her and then fell back against the table.

Keeping one hand on Lestrade’s body, Mycroft moved to one side. She reached across and began to knead the flesh of her shoulder, starting at the junction of the neck and moving out.

> “… _the landscape_
> 
> _after cruelty which is, of course a garden, which is_
> 
> _a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me_
> 
> _tight, it’s getting cold. We have not touched the stars_
> 
> _nor are we forgiven, which brings us back_
> 
> _to the hero’s shoulders and…”_

Mycroft leaned over Lestrade and whispered, letting her breath ghost across Lestrade’s ear,

> _“…a gentleness that comes,_
> 
> _not from the absence of violence but despite_
> 
> _the abundance of it…”_

Lestrade gave a soft gasp. She turned her head, and her eyes met Mycroft's. She blinked and then rested her head flat on the table. Mycroft smoothed the muscles that her hands had wrought. She glided over Lestrade’s ribs and her shoulder blades and then crossed to the opposite side, never breaking contact with her skin. She continued her recitation:

> “… _I’ll give you my heart to make a place_
> 
> _for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger_.”

Now she was digging her thumbs in tiny circular movements from the top of Lestrade’s spine to the base. She stopped where she felt tension and worked the area gently before moving lower. Then she swept her palms up and began stroking the entire length of Lestrade’s back over and over again.

Then she paused.

> “ _Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars_
> 
> _for you? That I would take you there? The splash_
> 
> _of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube?_ ”

Mycroft pressed her lips to the base of Lestrade’s neck. Then she brushed her tongue along the nape. Lestrade whimpered.

Mycroft rubbed Lestrade’s neck. She worked her thumbs into the tender spots around the base of her skull and under her ears. Lestrade groaned.

“… _Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on everyone_ …”

Mycroft trailed kissed from the top of Lestrade’s head down to the cleft of her bottom and then drew the sheet to cover her. She coated her hands with more oil. Then she wrung and kneaded Lestrade’s thighs and calves.

“… _What happens next?_ ”

Mycroft kept her hands still on Lestrade’s legs. Finally, Lestrade curled her head and gave her a small smile and a raised eyebrow. Mycroft nodded and then caged her arms around Lestrade as she slowly turned onto her back. Mycroft’s hands worked one foot and then the other, but her eyes never dropped from Lestrade’s face. Lestrade pushed herself up to sitting as Mycroft spoke.

> “ _The way you slam your body into mine reminds me_
> 
> _I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling,_
> 
> _And they’re only a few steps behind you, finding_
> 
> _the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren’t_
> 
> _stitched up quite right, the place they could almost_
> 
> _slip right through if the skin wasn’t trying to_
> 
> _keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side_
> 
> _of the theater where the curtain keeps rising_.”

Mycroft released Lestrade’s foot. Then she pulled her braces down and unbuttoned her shirt. She tore the shirt from her arms and let it hang from the waistband of her trousers. A white vest encased her torso, and she watched Lestrade’s eyes roam, over compressed flesh, scars, and disfigurements.

Mycroft dropped her head, but kept reciting, halting only when she felt the brush of Lestrade’s fingertips on her forehead. She looked up and pushed into waiting lips. The lips was warm and tender. Then Mycroft broke away and said, “ _I made this place for you. A place for you to love me_.”

Lestrade sniffed through her smile; her eyes glistened.

Mycroft pushed her back. She took Lestrade’s wrist and stroked upwards from forearm to elbow to shoulder, moulding her hand to muscle as she moved. Then she pulled back, stretching the arm. She kneaded Lestrade’s hand, and moved to the other side.

Then Mycroft positioned herself behind Lestrade’s head and pushed down from her clavicle, across her chest in a butterfly motion over and over.

Lestrade’s eyes were open. She watched Mycroft. And Mycroft watched her.

> _“You said Tell me about your books, your visions made_
> 
> _Of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is_
> 
> _the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you_
> 
> _there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a like sugar_
> 
> _cube…_ ”

Mycroft’s hands pressed down on Lestrade’s shoulders. Then her fingers wormed up along the cords of Lestrade’s neck. She lifted and rotated Lestrade’s head left and right before diving into her soft hair and pressing the pads of her fingers into her scalp.

> “ _We were in the gold room where everyone_
> 
> _finally gets what they want, so I said What do you_
> 
> _want, sweetheart? And you said Kiss me. Here I am_
> 
> _leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome_
> 
> _burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,_
> 
> _my silent night, just mash your lips against me_.”

She tugged Lestrade’s hair gently and smiled an upside-down smile.

“ _We are all going forward. None of us are going back_.”

And as Mycroft let go, Lestrade pushed up clumsily. “Consider me enlightened,” she mumbled and launched herself into Mycroft’s open arms.

* * *

“Hello! Finally caught up with you! I’ve been meaning to return this to you.”

Lestrade gave John the book.

“Well, this is perfect because I can give it back to the original owner right now.”

They entered the tea shop.

“Good morning, Watson.”

“Good morning. Moran, this is Lestrade. Lestrade, this Anne, who always gives me good advice about tea. And books too.”

“I liked it,” said Lestrade. “Thank you.”

“Me, too. Powerful stuff, no?” John handed the book to Moran. “Thank you for lending it to me, us, that is.”

“I thought you might appreciate it.”

“You know, since we have such similar taste in reading, we should start a book club,” suggested John, but the minute the words left her mouth, she frowned.

The three women looked at each other for a moment.

“Nah.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if anyone's ever done a Book Club AU, but it has potential. Especially on the cracky side, depending on the book.
> 
> So the Sikenlock phenomenon seems to have evaporated as quickly as it emerged. Which is fine. It's all fine, as they say. I kept waiting for an opportunity to dedicate this to the author of the work that inspired it, but as that is slow in coming, I thought I'd finish it off and move on. I am grateful to it for helping me through a dry spell muse-wise. Now I have more ideas than time, which is as it should be. 
> 
> Not my best work, but an experiment that hopefully a few Out There will enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
